


Coins, Cons and Crankiness

by china_shop



Series: Trading Places [5]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Episode Related, F/M, Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mitchell wrinkled her nose and poked the file boxes. "You know, I thought better of Clinton. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd assume every woman he met was automatically suited to shelving paper."</p><p>"Maybe he thinks that since you're on work release, you should do some actual, honest work," said Lauren. She returned the file she'd been reading and hesitated, hands on her hips. "Did you really send a hotel key card and a box of condoms to a surveillance van?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coins, Cons and Crankiness

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to stop after the last part, but there was too much unresolved, so I had to write this before I could settle down to recap. Spoilers for 1.04. Thanks, as always, to mergatrude for being awesome. <3

Lauren turned a corner in the case stacks and stopped short. Mitchell was leaning against the shelves, poking the file boxes aimlessly and mumbling to herself in what, when Lauren held her breath, sounded like iambic pentameter.

"Take a wrong turn on the way to the Rose?" said Lauren.

Mitchell swiveled on her heel to face her, her expression cloudy. "Can you believe he's got me filing? I haven't done filing since I -- worked briefly as an assistant at a small gallery in a far-off city."

"A gallery you were casing," interpreted Lauren. "Interesting. So you've had some experience."

"The alphabet's not exactly a challenge. Not like this." Mitchell wrinkled her nose and poked the file boxes again. Their catalogue numbers were printed along the bottom of each one, but it was a cryptic system if you didn't know your way around. "I thought better of Clinton. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd assume every woman he met was automatically suited to shelving paper."

"Maybe he thinks that since you're on work release, you should do some actual, honest work," said Lauren. She returned the file she'd been reading and hesitated, hands on her hips. "Did you really send a hotel key card and a box of condoms to a surveillance van?"

"That's the rumor." Mitchell's face cleared, eyes brightening at the reminder. "It was obvious from a mile off that those agents were doing it. You only had to check their take-out orders."

"They did get married a couple months later," Lauren admitted.

"Shame they didn't invite their mysterious benefactor to the wedding." Mitchell grinned. "I even know a registered celebrant who could have officiated."

"I think you'll find most federal agents prefer to keep their private occasions felon-free," said Lauren, witheringly. "Given your history--"

"Alleged."

"People like to let their hair down when they're celebrating, rather than counting the silverware or worrying about someone making off with their antique oak headboard."

"People should relax," said Mitchell, waving that aside. "Government employees' homes make for poor pickings."

Lauren raised an eyebrow. "And you've never pulled a heist just for the thrill. In Cape Canaveral, say."

"I've never pulled a heist, period." But Mitchell's mouth twitched. She focused properly on Lauren and tilted her head. "You seem to think you know a lot about me."

"You were part of my thesis at Quantico." It felt like an admission of personal interest, and of course Mitchell took it as such.

"Why, Agent Cruz, I didn't know you were a fan," she drawled, beaming. "How'd we do?"

"Ninety-four," said Lauren, torn between pride and irritation. "And I am a fan, actually -- just not of you. Agent Jones has been a role-model since I first thought of joining the FBI. Youngest agent to head his own unit, best clearance rate in the country."

"Mmmm," said Mitchell, her enthusiasm dampened. "And he still doesn't think to use a file clerk when he needs one." She grabbed a couple of boxes. "These will have to do."

Lauren shook her head, annoyed that a CI could get away with something that would earn a file clerk a strong reprimand -- wasting a senior agent's time. "You could at least make an effort."

"Yeah, but if I do, he'll just make me do it again next time." Mitchell's dimples were showing, but then she looked past Lauren and they vanished as if they'd never been. She hefted the file boxes, suddenly businesslike, muttered, "I'd better get back," and marched off.

Lauren turned to watch her leave, perplexed by her sudden shift in mood, and saw Burke standing there, holding a file folder, his face even grimmer than usual.

"What's eating her?" said Lauren. "Did you give her one of your lectures?"

"Nope." Burke glanced down at the folder in his hand. "And I don't lecture."

"Oh, admit it, you do a little bit," said Lauren, swatting him on the shoulder as she headed back to her desk.

 

*

 

El lugged the file boxes up the stairs to the mezzanine, cross with herself for reacting so obviously to Burke. So fine, he was the first guy she'd ever propositioned who didn't want to have sex with her (she didn't ask unless she was sure; she didn't usually have to ask at all), but that was no reason to be mad. It was his loss, and under normal circumstances, she'd be fine with it. No harm, no foul, as the saying went.

She was just antsy because it had been so long, what with prison and everything. She put it out of her mind and sauntered to Clinton's office, but stopped dead in the doorway.

Neal was there, standing across from Clinton, and he was exuding frustration. "Do you think you could stop being a badass FBI agent for five minutes and try being a compassionate human being helping a friend in need?"

"Oh, ouch," said El.

Clinton ignored her. "When that friend is a wanted fugitive?"

"Just because there's a warrant out for his arrest, doesn't mean he's guilty," said Neal.

El shifted her weight uncomfortably. "You know, I think I got the wrong file. I'll just--"

"Oh no, you don't." Neal pointed at her to halt her in her tracks. It worked. She took a few reluctant baby-steps into the lions' den. "Elizabeth, I'd like your professional opinion on this."

Clinton put his hands on his hips. "She's a professional _thief_."

"All the better," said Neal, with a steeliness El hadn't previously thought him capable of.

"Guys," she said, balancing the boxes in one arm so she could hold up her hand, "not in front of the kids, okay?" But apparently the battle they were locked in was too serious for either of them to crack a smile.

"You believe in innocent till proven guilty, right?" Neal asked her pointedly.

"Uh, define 'proven'."

"Fingerprints, hair fibers, DNA evidence," said Clinton, reading off his computer monitor. He raised his eyebrows at El, and she sighed. Like she had a choice which side to take.

"Honestly, I think your friend should just turn himself in," she told Neal. She shot a sideways look at Clinton. "Do I get a cookie?" Still no glimmer of humor from either of them. "Jeez. Tough crowd."

"Do you know where he is?" Clinton asked Neal. "Because if you're helping him hide, that's aiding and abetting."

"I'm not helping him hide," said Neal. "I told Dana he should turn himself in."

Clinton plunked himself down in his seat. "Then why on earth are we arguing about this?"

"Because he didn't do it," said Neal. "That's why I said he should turn himself in to _you_."

Clinton buried his head in his hands and gave a muffled groan.

El sent Neal a tentative smile. "Who's the suspect?"

"The husband of an old friend from the art gallery," said Neal. "John Mitchell. Just got back from serving in Iraq."

"Mitchell," said El. "Huh. Wonder if we're related."

Without raising his head, Clinton snorted and said in the direction of his blotter, "Don't even try to pretend that Mitchell's your real name."

"New case," she replied, with a grin. "Good thing I didn't waste too long looking for those files."

 

*

 

Clinton found Elizabeth exactly where her tracker said she'd be: in a mid-range Mediterranean restaurant near the edge of her radius. She was sitting alone, sipping wine and surveying the menu, and he slid into the seat across from her.

"Clinton." She didn't bother to hide her surprise. "Was I expecting you?" Her eyes darted to the door of the restaurant and back again.

"I'm not interrupting anything, right?" said Clinton. "Last time we had a drink, we made a breakthrough on the case. I thought tonight we might crack the whole thing wide open."

"Dana's still at your place, isn't she?" Elizabeth gave him a slightly impatient look. "You know, scientifically speaking, tears are incredibly harmless. Mostly just saline, a little meibum."

"I make her nervous," said Clinton, reaching for the spare menu. "It's the badge."

"It's the air of disapproval," Elizabeth corrected him. "Treating everyone like a suspect. It's not very soothing."

"I don't do that." Clinton was a little hurt. He'd gone out of his way to make Dana feel at home. For that matter, he was giving Elizabeth a lot more latitude than Hughes or any of the other brass would consider wise. Taking into account his natural inclinations, he thought he was being remarkably trusting.

"Whatever you say," said Elizabeth, clearly humoring him. She magically summoned a waiter, and while Clinton was ordering a beer and, what the hell, paella, a strange voice said from the other side of the waiter, "Photocopy of a pawn ticket, but I got this coin. What?"

Elizabeth was making frantic throat-slashing motions, and then the waiter moved away revealing a short, bald man with glasses. Aha, so this was her furtive little friend. He didn't look like much.

"My bad," he backtracked, loudly and clumsily. "I must have mistaken you for someone--"

"Sit down," said Clinton. If you were going to lie down with dogs, you might as well get to know their tics. "Who are you?"

"Uhh, Haversham," said the bald man, obviously pulling the name out of thin air. "Don-te Haversham. Dante." He smiled and nodded, settling into the alias. He seemed eccentric and evasive, but harmless, and Clinton didn't have the heart to tell him how transparent he was. Elizabeth looked like she was somewhere between dying of discomfort at having her worlds collide and dying of amusement. 

"Nice to meet you," said Clinton. "I'm Special Agent Jones." 

Haversham pulled up a chair from a neighboring table, stole Elizabeth's glass and gulped her wine. "I know who you are, Suit."

"Are you two--?" Clinton gestured between them. It was none of his business, but it qualified as small talk in a social situation, right? And given he was homeless for the evening, he could fruitfully spend the time learning more about his CI's less salubrious associates, who looked like they might very well share that address. Superficially, he'd have thought Elizabeth was well out of Haversham's league, but Clinton couldn't always fathom the mind of a con artist: maybe Haversham provided an opportunity for her not to be on all the time.

But Haversham was spluttering and signaling desperately to the waiter for more wine.

"Uh, no," said Elizabeth, with finality bordering on hysteria. "Nope. Just friends."

Clinton nodded and turned his attention to his paella, which the waiter had just set in front of him. 

"Friends and associates," said Haversham, recovering and sticking his chin in the air. Elizabeth touched his arm and gave a barely perceptible shake of her head, but he shook her off. "Partners, if you will. Not that you could prove it."

"Don't worry, I think we're keeping this evening off the record." Clinton put down his fork, drank a mouthful of beer and sat back. "So, tell me about the coin in your pocket."

Haversham started and glanced at Elizabeth, who shrugged helplessly, as if to say that having come this far, there was no point prevaricating. Clinton crooked his fingers, and the little guy sighed, dug out a gold coin and flipped it to him. An Islamic dinar from the Abbasid dynasty.

"Wow," said Clinton, turning it over, examining the inscriptions on either side. "That's really something. Alicia's guilty, isn't she?"

Elizabeth's mouth twisted into an upside-down smile. "Looks like it."

 

*

 

Mozzie was dreaming of blocking a security system's sensors using body armor made of Swiss chocolate. It was a triumphant moment, certain to go down in criminal history. "And they said it couldn't be done," he told the sentient mung beans who were observing, just before El interrupted.

"Come on, Moz." She sounded impatient. "Wake up."

He sat up and rubbed his face. It felt tickly. "Did you draw on my face?"

"Yeah, I decided your forehead was sorely in need of a da Vinci sketch," said El. "Come on, Aimes is meeting with me today. I need to look like the ultimate trust fund baby, and that means I need a car."

Mozzie perked up. It had been a while since they'd boosted a car together. It almost made him nostalgic. "I'll get my slim jim."

"No, we can't steal it." El held onto the back of a chair for balance while she changed her shoes. 

"Right," drawled Mozzie. "We can't 'steal' it." He used air quotes for emphasis.

"That's what I said." There was a tightness around her eyes.

Mozzie blinked hard a couple of times, wondering if he was just bleary from sleep, but the illusion of tightness didn't go away. "What's wrong?" he said. "You've been cranky since the weekend."

Her shoulders straightened, and she went to the closet to choose a scarf. "I'm worried about Alex," she said over her shoulder. "Any progress with the key?"

"As a matter of fact, there is," said Mozzie. "I've narrowed it down to a Midtown Mutual deposit box, so that only leaves us with about ten thousand possibilities across half a dozen branches."

El took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It's a start. Thanks, Moz."

"So. A car." Mozzie stood up and swayed slightly at the headrush. "Do I need a suit for this?"

"Of course you need a suit," said El, gratitude forgotten. "If you don't hurry up, I'll do it without you."

"Ha!" Mozzie grabbed the suit bag she was holding out and headed for the bathroom. "Would you relax? Have a glass of wine or something."

"Yeah, get drunk before I meet the mark," he heard her mutter as he shut the door behind him. "Best plan ever." 

"You've done some of your best work under the influence," Mozzie shouted through the door. As he fastened the navy polyester pants, he told himself that if she didn't chill out soon, he'd have no choice but to track down the best _apfelstrudel_ in the city and force feed it to her until she cheered up.

 

*

 

"Would you like to see the actual pieces?" offered Aimes, his voice echoing slightly in the large white room. 

"I think I'm looking at them." Elizabeth had her hands behind her back as if resisting the temptation to slip one of the smaller pieces into her pocket, no matter that they were all safely behind glass. 

Aimes smiled coolly. "You have a good eye."

Peter wasn't really following the conversation, too concerned with keeping eyes on Aimes and his bodyguard and maintaining a proper distance from Elizabeth. He was supposed to be her business manager. He adjusted his glasses and tried to look businessy and not like he was calculating the length of time it would take to throw open his briefcase and draw the gun from its hidden compartment. It wouldn't come to that. Probably.

But Elizabeth seemed distracted, a little off her game. She wasn't charming Aimes like Peter had expected her to, and Alicia was picking up on the tension in the air. 

"They were here all along," Alicia said, sounding more distraught than the revelation called for. 

"No reason to move them," said Aimes. "No one ever suspected they weren't reproductions -- until now, of course."

She touched her throat with a shaking hand, and Aimes sent her a curious look. Elizabeth was still admiring the artifacts and didn't intervene, so Peter decided to step in.

"Perhaps we can move this along?" He sat down and opened the briefcase to reveal the cash, hoping to blind Aimes with currency.

Unfortunately, that was when the bodyguard decided to pull his gun. 

"Wait, what are you doing?" said Elizabeth, sounding outraged. "I thought we had a deal."

For a second, Peter hoped this was a simple hold-up, that Aimes was trying to take the money without relinquishing the items, but then Aimes' lip curled back and he said, "Don't play games with me. You're with the FBI."

He really was dangerous -- and desperate -- if he was prepared to threaten government agents. Peter slipped his hand into the secret compartment and grabbed the handgrip before the bodyguard could stop him. Safety was off. He aimed squarely at the other gunman. "Give up now, we've got the building surrounded."

"You know, technically I'm just a consultant," said Elizabeth, her hands in the air. She sounded more annoyed than scared. Alicia, on the other hand, looked like she was going to pass out.

Peter could only spare either of them a quick glance. He was facing off with the bodyguard. "Drop your weapon."

The bodyguard narrowed his eyes and began to swing his aim toward Elizabeth, to use her for leverage.

"Drop it now!" Peter said, fiercely, stepping forward and forcing the thug to engage with him. 

"No need for a fifth wheel," said Aimes, and his hurried footsteps retreated, but Peter didn't care about him. He was not going to let the bodyguard pull the trigger.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, adding conviction to his voice. "You move one single muscle, I'm taking you down."

He'd never shot anyone before, and he didn't want to now, but he was ready. He'd do it if he had to. 

Thankfully, Cruz and the SWAT team chose that moment to storm the room. "FBI! Gun on the ground, right now. Hands on your head!"

"That's what I told him," said Peter to the room at large, "but would he listen?" He stood down, instinctively flicking on the safety and letting the gun fall to his side. He felt wired, exhausted and unutterably relieved, and he looked around to make sure Elizabeth was okay. 

She was leaning against one of the glass display cases, arms folded tightly, watching SWAT cuff the bodyguard and Alicia. Peter went over to check on her, and she met his eye for a flicker of a second before turning back to the scene. "Guess we got him."

"Yep." Peter knew he should retrieve the briefcase, get the money back to the office. There was a ton of paperwork whenever an agent pulled their service weapon in the field too, and that was on top of the case report. He didn't move. "Good work, consultant."

Elizabeth shrugged, and Peter licked his lips and decided what the hell. They'd both come _this close_ to ending up in body bags, and he for one did not want to go down while things were like this between them. He was going out of his mind trying not to think about her, about her mouth on his and her body pressed against him. If abstaining meant they couldn't work together properly, then screw abstinence. Life was too damned short. In that moment, still high on the rush of an armed showdown, his reputation as a stickler -- his career in general -- was more a burden than a blessing, as unwelcome a restriction as the tracker on Elizabeth's ankle. 

He deactivated the transmitter in his watch. No one would notice, now the bust was over. "Hey," he said quietly, for her ears only. "Why don't you come over tonight and teach me to cheat at cards, if the offer's still open." 

Her gaze flew to his, eyebrows drawing together, eyes blue and questioning.

"Yeah," said Peter, taking off his fake glasses. "That was a euphemism."

Her lips parted in surprise. She tipped her head to the side and considered him, then angled to face the room again, but this time she wasn't turning away; it was more like they were standing shoulder to shoulder. Her arms dropped to her sides. "Sorry to say, Burke, but that was a limited-time offer, and it has expired."

Peter let out a long slow breath. "Okay, fair enough." He stuck his hands in his pockets and waited for that to sink in. The adrenaline was starting to subside too, leaving a jumble of mixed feelings. "Well, do me a favor?"

"That depends."

"Call me Peter," said Peter.

Elizabeth was silent for a moment, and Peter snuck a peek sideways, caught a slight grin cross her face. "You aren't worried that might set tongues wagging?" she mocked.

"You call Jones 'Clinton'. I'll risk it."

Elizabeth snorted softly. "We'll see." 

Clinton came into the room and looked around for them, beckoned to Elizabeth, and she went to him without another word. So, that was that. Rejection or not, Peter felt better. They were talking again, and when she'd walked away, well, at least she'd been smiling.

 

*

 

"More coffee?" offered Neal. He and Dana were sitting across the breakfast bar from each other, indulging in some Schadenfreude-laden gossip about the decline of the gallery they both used to work at, and Neal was secretly hoping with all his heart that today's bust had been successful and the FBI were right now clearing John Mitchell's name. Neal liked Dana a lot, but the last week had been draining for everyone.

Not least for Dana, whose eyes were almost permanently red-rimmed. She held out her cup with both hands, and Neal poured the coffee and silently berated himself for being selfish. He couldn't imagine what she must be going through. If someone had framed Clinton--

Before he could climb aboard that unpleasant train of thought, the front door opened, and Clinton walked in with Mitchell.

Dana put down her cup, spilling coffee across the counter in her haste, and squeaked with relief.

"Hi, baby." John wrapped her in his arms.

Clinton made a beeline for Neal, who moved in and leaned his head on Clinton's shoulder, his eyes closing in relief. "Proud of you, babe."

"You're not going to take any credit?"

Neal could hear the smile in his voice, and it made his own lips curve. "Maybe a little. Behind every great lawman, there's a guiding hand."

Clinton put his arm around Neal's waist and kissed the side of his head. "And in my case, that hand is gorgeous, smart and determined."

"I like to think I'm a good influence," agreed Neal, with fake modesty.

"The best. If it weren't for you--" Clinton took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "Let's just say there are some very bad people going away for a very long time. I think Dana and John owe you dinner."

Neal glanced at the reunited Mitchells. It was always nice to see a happy ending and to know you contributed to it in some small way. "Maybe -- but not tonight, okay? They have some catching up to do, and we -- let's make tonight just us."

Clinton's hold tightened and his lips brushed Neal's ear. "Whatever you want, babe. Anything you want."

 

END


End file.
